by J. R. Trtek
The younger Holmes brother smiled. “I should think it is you who places himself in a potentially embarrassing position instead, Mycroft. I thank you.”
“Well,” said his sibling primly, “blood is thicker than mustard gas. Or, so they say.”
The following evening, Holmes and I ate an early dinner and then took up familiar positions in the sitting room: The detective leafed through yet another commonplace book while I finished editing documents for the medical corps.
At eight o’clock, the doorbell rang. A moment later, Martha ushered Sir Walter Bullivant into our presence.
“The deed is done,” the spymaster declared, setting aside his coat and hat. “It all went rather well, just as planned,” he said, taking the basket chair. “The disturbance, the arrival of the police, the supposed chance observation of the interior of the building, leading to the discovery of mustard gas—each step succeeded the next like clockwork.”
“And was sulphur mustard within that warehouse?” said Sherlock Holmes.
“Oh yes,” replied Bullivant. “I’m told there was enough to contaminate many blocks of London. There is an army detachment surrounding the building at present, and the stores will be evacuated to the Albany Street Barracks by dawn tomorrow. There has been and will continue to be a commotion until all is removed, but we are inventing explanations to satisfy the public as matters proceed, with no mention of gas so as to reduce any chance of panic.”
“And were there German agents on the premises?” asked Holmes.
“We believe there were five,” replied Bullivant. “Sergeant Scaife and Inspector Magillivray allowed two to slip away, as per your request.” He sighed. “It puts them in a rather dim light with respect to the Yard, however.”
“We all knew that might be the result,” the detective remarked. “In the meanwhile, I believe the best you can do in reply is continue to employ Scaife and Magillivray as you are able, and to express your confidence in them to their superiors, as you already have. And to hope, of course, that we quickly and decisively foil the further plans of Von Bork’s new spy ring.”
Bullivant nodded.
“There will be no government action immediately forthcoming with regard to the Transport League?” Holmes asked.
“M has promised there will be none for at least the next fortnight, perhaps longer.”
The detective shrugged. “Well, that gives us at least a few days of grace.”
“Yes,” agreed Bullivant. “And there is another item for which we may give thanks: there is no longer any need to search for that Dieter Baumann fellow.”
Holmes cocked his head. “The fellow has not turned up dead, has he?”
“Quite the contrary,” replied the spymaster. “He is alive, and he is eager to come over to our side.”
“What?”
“A note was handed to Inspector Magillivray this very evening as he supervised the final stages of securing the warehouse with army personnel. It was given him by a street boy who said a stranger had paid him to deliver it to the inspector, whom the man pointed out to the lad.”
Bullivant reached into a pocket, withdrew a folded piece of paper, and leaned forward to hand it to Holmes.
“You will see that the note is not signed,” the spymaster said. “The boy, however, described the stranger as having two prominent moles upon his cheek. That is our Herr Baumann, is it not?”
“Yes,” said Holmes with an abstracted air as he read the brief letter. “This is a most interesting development,” he added as he passed the paper on to me.
I took the sheet and viewed its contents:
There is more elsewhere. From those keeping me in slavery to their madness free me, and I will lead you to it. I am German but pray for the Kaiser’s fall. Answer in the newspaper. God Save the King.
“The spy ring appears to be cracking, if not breaking,” I observed, handing the note back to Holmes, who turned to Sir Walter.
“If it is acceptable,” said the detective to the spymaster, “I should like Inspector Magillivray to immediately turn over to me any such notes that he or Scotland Yard may receive in future.”
“Yes, of course,” said Bullivant. “I will so inform him.”
“And in the meanwhile,” Holmes said, “please have the inspector place the following message in the Times: ‘God Save the King: We are listening.’”
“I will have him do so at once,” responded the spymaster. “Well, events are turning our way now, it seems. Oh, and there is one more item—one of a personal nature—that I must tell you,” Bullivant said. “The store of mustard gas having been confirmed, found, and seized—and the prospect now ahead of taking hold of the rest with Dietrich Baumann’s assistance—the prime minister has directed M to have me convey his—that is, the premier’s heartfelt thanks and appreciation for your efforts.”
Holmes nodded impatiently. “The task is not finished, however,” he said. “We do not yet have Von Bork, let alone a grasp of his remaining plans.”
“To complete my message,” Bullivant quietly said, “I am to inform you that for this and everything else you have contributed in the past several years, a knighthood would not be out of the question, in the premier’s view.”
“Tosh!” scoffed Holmes, reaching for a pipe. “I have been through that nonsense more than once. What portion of a negative response is beyond the grasp of our government?”252
“I leave that issue for you and M to discuss,” Bullivant declared. “Consider your brother to be the government’s representative in the matter.”
“He is the government’s representative in all matters that concern me,” replied Holmes, reaching for his shag.
“There is news also from Richard Hannay and Mary Lamington,” said Bullivant.
“Oh?” I replied as Holmes stuffed his pipe. “Where are they? What is happening to them?”
“Formally, Mary serves at present at a base hospital in Normandy,” the spymaster told us. “And here is something of great import: she has received a brief letter from the man we know as Moxon Ivery.”
“Truly?” said Holmes, suddenly losing interest in his pipe.
“Yes,” replied the spymaster. “Though I find it surprising that he should attempt to contact her.”
Holmes smiled as he searched for a vesta. “It is a testament to the young woman’s ability to lead on our Mr. Ivery while not appearing a member of our secret cabal. What was the content of the letter? Did it concern his proposal of marriage?”
“He asked to meet her, an offer that she has not yet accepted, pending my approval. Oh, and the man signed his name as Bommaerts: another one of his many identities, no doubt.”
“And are you going to allow her to see Bommaerts née Ivery?” I asked with concern.
“I do not yet know for certain,” replied Bullivant. “I thought to ask your advice on this,” he added, speaking not to me but rather to Holmes.
“Good God,” I exclaimed. “You are not going to use her as bait with which to snare the man, are you?”
“Ivery is too clever to be captured in that manner, Watson,” said Holmes as he lit his pipe. “However, he is also…too clever by half, and it would be…to our advantage to allow Miss Lamington to see him, no matter what he is calling himself these days.”
“You cannot be serious!” I declared.
“I can be and am quite serious, old fellow.”
“Have you no regard for the safety of a woman?” I asked sharply, immediately regretting the remark, for I saw my Holmes’s face struggle to hide the pain my comment had wrought.
Knowing the reason for his agony, I saw my friend turn to address Bullivant. “Miss Lamington is perhaps the only person among us whom Ivery does not suspect of being in your employ, Sir Walter,” he said calmly. “You should utilise that advantage as best you can.”
I chose not to reply to this sentiment, which I admitted was coldly logical, but at the same time also cold-blooded. “And what of Hannay?” I asked in a hollow voic
e.
“We have made use of Abel Gresson, whom Holmes here wisely suggested we allow to remain free, so that we might observe him,” said Bullivant. “When Gresson was touring the Continent as part of that labour group, one of Blenkiron’s operatives noticed that he stayed a strangely long while in a small French village.”
I listened intently, noticing that Holmes was staring at the carpet.
“Hannay is preparing to visit the village as we speak here,” Bullivant said. “We will see if he turns up anything. Oh,” he added, “Hannay also wished me to tell you, Watson, that he ran into Launcelot Wake, Mary’s cousin.”
“Yes,” I said. “He is in the Labour Corps.”
“Fine lad, then,” Bullivant declared. “He is doing his part, certainly, just as Mary is doing hers.”
I did not respond to the comment.
“And perhaps if my reassignment ever occurs, the same may be said about me,” I muttered with a facetious air.
“Have you not told him?” Bullivant asked Holmes, who frowned and shook his head.
“What?” I asked. “What do you mean by that, Bullivant?”
“I mean that you are certainly prescient,” the spymaster told me. “My understanding was that you were not to be informed for another few days, but yes, Watson, you are being reassigned by the medical corps, though you will remain in London.”
“And what is the nature of this new charge?” I asked anxiously.
“You are to be gazetted to the staff of Queen Alexandra’s Hospital,” Bullivant informed me. “I believe it will be effective the first of the month.”253
“Queen Alexandra’s?” I said in disbelief. “Are you quite certain?”
“As certain as I am now that we shall someday capture Moxon Ivery,” replied Sir Walter.
“And what is my position to be? My duties? Am I to—”
“I know none of those details,” explained Bullivant as he retrieved his hat and coat. “I fear you must wait for your new orders, Watson. But allow me to congratulate you.”
Holmes and I escorted Bullivant along the hallway and bade him farewell into the night. As I closed the door, my friend was already returning to the sitting room.
“Holmes?” I called meekly. “Holmes,” I said while catching up to him, “did you have any part in this?”
“In what?”
“In my reassignment, of course.”
“Whatever might suggest to you that I had?” asked my friend, who, re-entering the sitting room, retrieved his pipe from a table to make certain that its fire was still alive.
“The fact that you give such a reply instead of answering my question directly, for one,” I stated. “Then too,” I added, stepping to the hearth to revive the coals, “Sir Walter enquired if you had informed me previously of my change in duties.”
Holmes raised his brows.
“Why should he ask that of you, unless he believed you already knew of the reassignment?” I said.
Holmes sat down in his armchair and reached for another of his commonplace books.
“And why should you know of it,” I said, “unless you yourself instigated it?”
“I believe I have heard someone in the past bemoaning being subjected to ‘deductive enumerations,’ Watson. Could that have been you? If so, then I assure you that I now know how you must have felt.”
“I feel you are continuing to evade me.”
“Not very well, I fear,” Holmes sighed. “Yes, I admit I had a hand in this recent change of assignment for you.”
“But why?”
“Is the answer not obvious to us both?” my friend said. “As I have told you, Watson, I must have you here in London, to steady me,” Holmes admitted. “To give me an anchor.” His eyes assumed a troubled look, and he added, “You are all that is left of those bygone days, Watson. Baker Street and its trappings are gone,” he declared, looking round the room, “other than those few mementos that we have salvaged. Indeed, I was instrumental in destroying much of that, was I not? But you were always the rock upon which I built my agency, and you are no less essential now.”
I opened my mouth but found I could not speak.
“Your frustration with the secretarial duties that have been foisted upon you has not been lost on me,” Holmes said. “If I have had a hand in arranging matters more to your liking, it has been purely from a desire to see you happy, old fellow.”
“Believe me when I say that your desire has been fulfilled, Holmes, and I thank you more than words can convey.”
My friend smiled wanly.
“And, Holmes, I must apologise most earnestly for my callous remark earlier about—”
The detective gestured as if to wave me off.
“There is no need, Watson,” he sighed. “Your judgement is just, and I deserve every—”
At that moment, the house bell rang.
“Who can that be?” asked Holmes, his mood suddenly changed. “Is it Sir Walter returning, having forgotten to convey one last piece of news?”
Just then, Martha appeared at the open doorway.
“A commissionaire was at the door, sir,” she told Holmes. “He was bearing this,” the woman said, stepping into the sitting room with an ungainly parcel in her arms.
Very quickly, I strode to her side and relieved her of the burden.
“The commissionaire said he had no real knowledge of the sender, only that it was a man of middle age who declared the package was for you, Mr. Holmes.”
I placed the box upon a table, and Sherlock Holmes set down his pipe to approach it.
“Thank you, Martha,” said the detective. “We will open it presently.”
“As you wish,” replied our housekeeper, who departed the room.
Holmes, meanwhile, had already removed most of the string and wrapper from a sturdy but elegant wooden box not quite an arm’s length in its greatest dimension.
“Hum,” said my friend. “Hand me the poker, please.”
I stepped to the hearth and returned with the desired tool. Holmes then carefully used it to pry open one end of the box, which appeared stuffed with shredded paper. I heard a dull clink as the box was gently tilted, and then Holmes reached in to extract from the container a large bottle, its dark surface streaked with dust.
“Ha!” exclaimed the detective, holding it in his hands. “What a gesture, indeed!” he cried, holding aloft a bottle of Imperial Tokay. “It were Altamount’s favourite,” he added in the voice of his erstwhile alter ego.
“Do you mean to imply that this was sent by—”
“Heinrich Von Bork. Yes, of course it was.” He dusted off the bottle and then turned once more toward me. “He is most generous, is he not?”
“But why should Von Bork do such an impetuous and foolhardy thing?” I asked. “By this act, he admits his presence to us all.”
“He knows he reveals nothing I do not already know,” said Holmes, looking once more at the bottle. “However, he does not know all that has been revealed to me. I have told you repeatedly that he was amongst us, Watson, and here is proof at last, in the form of this congratulation.”
“But if he is conceding that you have bested him again, does that not mean he realises you were behind the raid on his mustard gas this evening?”
“Yes,” admitted Holmes. “In that sense, the gift is bittersweet. Still,” he added, “I believe we may also take heart from it, for it is implicit proof that Von Bork does not suspect we know of the London Transport League. Otherwise, I do not believe he would be so brazen.”
“Might he not be goading you in the manner you did him with that magazine story?”
“Perhaps,” replied my friend. “But I shall not respond to such taunting, if taunting it be.”
“You do not propose to drink a toast to those sentiments, do you?”
“Of course not, Watson,” he said with a chuckle. “I shall not drink to such sentiments. I should, however, wish to toast your new assignment at Queen Alexandra’s Hospital.”
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br /> I started to speak in concern.
“But do not worry, old fellow,” said Holmes, setting down the bottle. “I will propose a toast, but I do not intend to employ this vintage. It would not be beyond the capacity of our German friend to poison the contents, though the stopper appears undisturbed, and I doubt that, with his breeding, he would stoop to ruin such a fine Tokay. Still, one must be prudent.”
Holmes strode to the mantel, his bearing, I noticed, transformed to one of confidence. “I have him now, Watson,” he said. “I have goaded Von Bork into making this even more a matter of personal emotion.”
As Sherlock Holmes reached for our brandy and glasses, I could not help but remind myself that the matter had been very personal for some time, and that Von Bork’s gesture had perhaps not been intended to inspire anger in my friend but rather an excess of pride.
* * *
248 A music hall.
249 Pennyfields is an area of London bordering Limehouse, and the Causeway refers to the Limehouse Causeway, that district’s central street.
250 “Celestial” was a nineteenth century synonym for “Chinese.”
251 A dacoit is an Indian bandit, and the Chilapata Forest is a densely wooded area of that country.
252 Holmes had already been offered a knighthood at least once, probably in 1902. That was, by coincidence, the year in which Watson’s literary agent, A. C. Doyle, was knighted.
253 See Footnote 110.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: RETURN & REVELATION
I threw myself into the responsibilities of an RAMC staff secretary with new vigour, knowing that their tedium would soon end. Awaiting service at Queen Alexandra’s Hospital, I became reinvigorated, feeling that I would soon regain a sense of purpose that was wholly mine, though I did feel slight pangs of guilt, understanding that my duties would leave far less time to stand at the side of Sherlock Holmes.
A few days after learning of my impending reassignment, I remained at home one morning to edit a set of documents. As I put finishing touches on those papers before gathering my things to travel to the staff office in Westminster, Martha slipped her head through the open doorway of the sitting room.